


Four Months To Go

by alafaye



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-06
Updated: 2013-12-06
Packaged: 2018-01-03 16:10:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1072478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alafaye/pseuds/alafaye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John's been recalled overseas; Sherlock forgets to pay the bills.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Four Months To Go

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2013 winter ; master list and prompts can be found [here](http://alafaye.livejournal.com/350228.html). This is day 6, 'heating'.

The front door opened, someone walked in. Mrs. Hudson was home, John was still overseas, Greg was up North for some case that he been loaned out for. ( _Not loaned out, Sherlock. Asked to help with._ Sherlock scoffed still; semantics, really. Besides, Mycroft was currently somewhere near there for something he refused to share and Greg's case had all the hallmarks of Mycroft intervention.)

Mycroft.

Sherlock sniffed and pulled his blanket tighter around him. Still no heat. He could see his breath even in his blanket. He needed John home--someone had to remember to pay the bills.

Who had done it before John?

"Well, I should've expected this," Mycroft sighed, put upon. 

Of course. Sherlock glared at the sofa. "Why aren't you remembering to pay the bills anymore?"

"I had hoped that by living with a responsible room mate, whom you are desperately fond of--"

Sherlock shot up, indignant. "I am not desperately fond of John!"

"You would have learned to pay your own bills," Mycroft finished, undeterred by Sherlock's shout.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and rearranged his blanket. He forgot how cold a flat could get without heat. Damn John and damn Mycroft for not keeping John here, at home, where he belonged. With Sherlock.

Mycroft leaned on his umbrella and opened a pocket watch-- _their grandfather's_ and it _had_ been in Sherlock's room, safe and sound. Mycroft had always coveted it when they were growing up and had been sore that Sherlock had inherited it instead. How had Mycroft gotten it?

"Ten of six, Sherlock," Mycroft said calmly.

Sherlock looked up. "So?"

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "I suggest you turn on your laptop." He glanced at the unopened pile of bills--where no doubt there were several notices--pointedly. "Though as I suspected, you are unaware."

It couldn't be. John was--last Sherlock had heard, John was in deep cover, unreachable. Even on Christmas. "What did you do?" he asked.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "What makes you think I had to do with anything?"

"Out," Sherlock hissed, standing to cross the room to pick up his laptop. "Now."

Mycroft chuckled and picked up the stack of bills. "You're welcome, little brother. I shall see if I can perform another miracle and get some of these bills sorted."

Sherlock ignored him. (But there would be heat tonight. Wonderful--he could restart his experiment on the mice feces.) In short time, Sherlock was online and his webcam was streaming. The other image was dark, full of static. Sherlock resisted the urge to pace. If he left...but Sherlock would. Not. Miss. John.

And there he was, a minute ten later, dirty and camouflaged and tired and _alive_. Sherlock breathed out heavily and squeezed his hand into a fist to keep himself from touching the screen. John grinned. "Decided to not wear clothes again?"

Sherlock sniffed. "I am actually wearing clothes under the sheet this time." He opened it enough for John to see a shirt and robe before bundling up again.

"Experiment?" John asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Stop it," Sherlock bit out. "It's not important. Talk to me. Tell me everything."

John smiled. "Data."

"I don't have enough," Sherlock said quietly.

John's face was soft and fond and loving. He touched the screen where Sherlock's face must've been on his feed and sighed. "I miss you."

"Facts, John."

John nodded. "Right. Well, I can't tell you where I am, but I can say it's a cave and it's dirty and rank and one of the most foul places I've ever been."

"Fouler than the Thames last August?" Sherlock pressed, his mind filing all of this away very, very carefully.

John thought about it. "Yeah. Fouler. There's lice and slime and mold and rats and something that smells like...well..." John cleared his throat and kept on with himself and his team and his pack and what little he could say about his current mission.

Sherlock absorbed it all, from every shadow movement in the background down to every little twich John's muscles made. Too long. Two long bloody months and there were still four to go. It was interminable. 

"And you have got to stop looking at me like that, Sherlock," John finished.

Two months compressed into only twenty minutes. What had John left out? John groaned and scrubbed his face with his hands. "Stop it, Sherlock. Just stop it. I can't--you looking like that--I can't stand it."

Sherlock closed his eyes and turned his head. "I need you here."

"To pay the bills?" John joked. His face fell when Sherlock glared at him through the connection. "I'm sorry."

Sherlock huffed. "You're doing what you love doing."

"I love doing you," John interrupted, trying and failing to lighten the mood. "I wish I could be there with you. The heating would of course be on and I'd have woken you up with a Christmas blow-job."

"Stop!" Sherlock growled. When John blinked, confused and hurt, Sherlock swallowed hard. "It's..."

John licked his lips. "Yeah. _It's_."

Someone called for John. His C.O.? John yelled something back over his shoulder and faced Sherlock again. They were silent for a handful of seconds, both of them knowing this was likely all they would get for the next four months. John groaned and put his hand over his screen again. "I'll come home."

"You better," Sherlock said. Life without John just...wasn't.

"Right. I'll be seeing you, love."

John reached up and the connected fizzled out. Sherlock slammed the lid closed and stormed back to his sofa. _Merry Christmas indeed, Mycroft_ he thought bitterly. 

_Thank you.  
SH_

_I did nothing, Sherlock.  
MH_

Sherlock threw his phone over his shoulder and curled up. Four months to go.


End file.
